One Hundred Years of Snow
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: A man who makes a beast out of himself ain't got nothing left to lose. (post apocolypse au, Bill Hobart/Charlie Davis)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well here we are again. Me, 'bout to drop a long ass fic. So this fic is another post apocalypse fic staring Bill Hobart. We also have a dash of Alice/Rose, Blake/Jean and a whole lotta Bill/Charlie. Warnings: Graphic violence, slavery, prostitution, scary governments, sexual assault (mentioned only) character death (lot of this) and to finish it all off sickfic and blindness. Enjoy ya'll and please, leave review! It's my birthday :-)

He always dreams about Charlie Davis.

Charlie Davis, behind his desk, never looking up from his keys as he typed his invisible police report.

Charlie Davis, sitting on a bench outside the office drinking tea from a ceramic cup filled with holes.

Charlie Davis, smoking a cigarette and lamenting the unfairness of life.

Charlie Davis, in his bed, fingers cold against the skin of his back, eyes looking down, pale blue and sad.

Bill Hobart missed him every second of every day, never able to find relief from the ache that is seemingly never filled. Not that he would want to.

…

The world they had known ended five and a half years ago, at Bill's count. While the exact cause was never really said, there was guesses floating around, not that he ever subscribed to them. Perhaps that was unwise of him, but he'd always been one to look forward rather then backwards.

The old government, the old police, they were all gone. People were gone as well. Some showed up again when the scorching heat turned itself down to bearable. He spent the time where the ground was so hot it melted shoes hidden away, studying his photograph of Charlie, the one he carried for good luck. Charlie is leaning on him, one hand on his chest, splayed, he's laughing at something Bill said, his eyes scrunched up into a laugh. He hides from gangs and bandits, killing his way back from Melbourne, where he'd been hiding, and making his way back to Ballarat, to be reunited with Charlie.

He returned to Ballarat, intent on finding Charlie, and then taking him some place safe. Not that he had any idea where that would be, the finer points of things tended to be Charlie's expertise. He'd assumed he would find Charlie at Blake's house. He hadn't.

Blake himself had never left. No one calls him Lucien any more. He wouldn't allow it. Not that Bill had tried, of course. He had no desire to form a friendship with the man. He seemed like one of those men who had become dangerous and unhinged. God only knows Bill has met enough of them to last him a lifetime. Perhaps the part that made him so unhinged was not only the solitude of five years, but blindness. Those who looked right at the end of the world, that great big explosion, they always looked like he did. Acted like he did as well. Bill has no idea how Blake survived without him providing food and company, but he doesn't ever ask. He's not sure he would like the answer.

Lawson showed up a few weeks later, Bill had been settling into Charlie's old room, still convinced Charlie would be back here soon. Lawson seemed like his old self, just more distant. He spoke often of how the heat reminded him of Africa. When he wasn't talking about Africa, he was talking about how fucked up everything was, and he was right. Bill likes that Lawson hasn't changed too much, finds it comforting, actually.

Rose Anderson showed up a week after that, and threw herself into chronicling the events post – end of the world, and trying to care for her uncle. He found her tolerable. She listened to him talk about Charlie, which meant a lot to him, because she didn't try to make him out as something more then he was. He could tell easily why Charlie liked her. She had a sort of dryness about her that he liked. He wonders if he should have given her a chance before the end of the world. He wonders if it would have counted for anything.

Frank turned up half a year later. He'd done a brief stint as a mercenary for hire, but tired of it quickly. He wanted to garden and sell food at the market. Blake allowed him access to what was left of Jean's garden, an important moment. In all of their lives.

Alice Harvey was the most recent one to come home. She'd worked and still worked at what was left of the hospital healing people. It had taken Bill months to convince her to come up to the house. She hadn't wanted to come back lest she infect anyone with the illnesses from the hospital. She was still jumpy and Bill was always slightly worried she's shatter into a million little pieces. Rose had taken to her right away, two women among a sea of men. He would expect it, actually.

There was those who were yet to show up. Jean Beazley was one. No one has seen her. No one would even know where to begin. Some had shown up, but went to live some place else. Ned, who lived in town.

Charlie was no where to be seen or heard. But Bill was going to look until he found a body to bury, if that was how things turned out.

…

After the new government established itself (by killing all the competion) in Perth, their first order of business was setting up ration delivery to all the states, then electing officials (one of the Tynemans, for Ballarat) and then a police force. The new police force was started in Victoria when someone (again, one of the Tynemans) wanted justice for some murdered family member or other, and then lynch mobs started forming.

Bill eventually agreed to help set up the new police men, leaving his job as a private security officer in order to do so. He recruited other ex police officers like Ned Simmons and Penny Wardlaw, new ones from all over the place, tried to convince Frank to lead them again (a firm no) set up the registry office with help from Rose Anderson (a place where you could register your status as alive), made new badges to be sewn onto shirts to denote who you were, set up an office at the old station, and tried again to convince Frank to lead them. (Another, firmer no.) So Bill became the unofficial leader of the Ballarat branch of the new police.

Some people trusted them. Some didn't. Even the opinion in his own home was split. Rose, Alice and himself approved of them. Blake, Lawson and Frank did not. But they couldn't stop him from doing what he thought was right, given that it was his wages, combined with Rose and Alice who kept the household afloat. Lawson couldn't work, the money Frank brought in from gardening was a pittance and Blake...Well.

Alice still worked at the hospital. She helped those in need on one condition. They signed up to the registry. The registry was one of Bill's projects to help the police force. It was a sort of master list of people in Ballarat and where you could find them, as well as allowing access to government provided rations. Rose ran the building, since she could get names and details and stories from them, and the typing meant she kept her skills in order.

Not much call for journalists these days. The only paper was the Tyneman run courier, but it was largely government approved stories that Rose said she would rather give up writing forever then write for them. Not that Bill blames her. Most of the government stories were propaganda. Bi weekly he submits a report of police notices to be printed. Rose would submit a people-seeking-people notices for anyone who was looking for people. Bill read them to Blake when they arrived weekly, at his request. He was listening for some kind of note from Jean. Perhaps in code. After a brief scan for other notes and stories, a scoff of the butchering of his police notice, and they were used as mulch for Frank's plants or to light the stove. Alice would read them first. Rose never read them. Frank and Lawson never cared enough to bother.

The hospital had three branches. Urgent, unregistered, returning. Alice, after being appointed by Bill, was the director of all three, as well as a doctor. Perhaps he played favourites. But everyone knew Alice was the best choice, as she had, in the aftermath, been the one who set the whole place up. Urgent was a bit like the ER. If you had suffered an accident, or were on the verge of death, registered or not, you would be treated. Unregistered was for those who needed treatment, but not urgently. Like a GP, really. Bill rarely had cause to make his way there, but Alice kept him in the loop. Returning was for those with ongoing treatment, like Lawson and Blake.

Bill was mostly in charge of shuffling them to their various appointments since Frank had become a recluse. Lawson's ongoing treatment was for his leg, mostly monthly check ups ensuring that he was fine. Blake's was a bit more often, weekly. Like many people who were in close proximity to the end, Blake suffered from extensive burns to the side of his face, and was blinded in his left eye, sight compromised in the right. His treatment included the same as all the other burn victims. And there were a lot of them in Ballarat.

Perhaps the biggest flaw with Bill and Rose's registry system was that people could register under any name. Bill himself was not free of this crime, he's registered under the name 'Bill Hobart' rather then his 'actual' name 'William Hobart'. Personally, he was quite glad to be rid of the name, he'd hated William his whole life. Everyone else had registered under their actual names, even Frank had registered as Franklin.

So, he supposes, late at night, when he is meant to be sleeping, in Charlie's bed, Charlie could be here. He could be registered under another name. Large groups of people with obscured faces registered all the time, mostly because they wanted rations or treatment. Charlie could have been one of them, not wanting Bill to see him for whatever reason. Analysis: unlikely. Charlie wasn't one for running away from things. He would face death head on if he thought he could. He would walk through Hell to come home.

There are worse options. At least with that one, Charlie would be alive, and in food. That was good. He'd possibly be okay with that, but he knows, deep in his heart that it's not the case. Charlie could be dead, at second best. A skeleton picked clean by angry birds. A shallow grave thanks to some nameless, faceless kind heart. At worst, he could be indentured.

Indentured was a nice word for slavery, in Bill's mind. Technically legal, the indentured were usually people working off debt from just after the end. Bill never much liked going out to those places, the souls inside always looked empty. Offered to take his coat, his hat, would he like tea? The boss will be here soon. He oft wondered, what good was he as a police officer if he can't protect the most innocent. But that was how it always was, right? Protect and serve, if they're rich. He wishes his political influence was enough to ban the practice but he knew it wasn't that simple.

In the next room, he could here the soft voices of Rose and Alice. The sleeping arrangements were made to keep everyone comfortable. Blake slept in the room he always had, because it was easy for him to find and it seemed to cruel to make someone who was as good as blind go up and down stairs. Lawson slept in the studio, on the overstuffed couch. He'd had a choice of all the remaining rooms but he chose downstairs in the studio, and with Bill's help, but managed to convert the couch into something of a bed. Frank slept on the couch in the living room, Bill still has no idea why. But he suspects it's because the three of them had the worst nightmares and he felt better being between them to get there and wake the nightmare prone first. Alice would comfort Blake. Rose would comfort Lawson. He'd comfort Frank. It was a system that worked, wasn't it? Rose and Alice shared a room and a bed. He's not one to judge. If anything, he's happy they've found comfort in one another. He sleeps, unsurprisingly, in Charlie's old room.

He gave up on sleep for the moment, and wandered to the old wardrobe. It was half Charlie's things, half his. He took out the blue police shirt, and held it close to his face, trying to breathe in anything that might be left of him and hold it in his lungs. Analysis: There's nothing, but if he tries his hardest, he can catch maybe the faintest trace of Charlie still there. Analysis of memory: Oil, hair wax, cheap aftershave and detergent. The ingredients that made up the scent he craved so much. It's not a patch on the real thing, but he still craves it. He can imagine Blake doing the same thing with Mrs Blake's clothes, holding her favourite cardigan to his face, trying to remember the exact curve of her hip when it fit into his hand. The way her eyes wrinkled when she smiled. The highway maps spelled out by veins on the back of her hands. He knows this because he thinks the same thing about Charlie.

He has an advantage, of course. There is a row of photos along the piano, kept by Jean for whatever reason. There is only one with Charlie in it, along with the one he'd been carrying inside his shirt pocket for the last few years. His photo is heavily worn by now, faded, scraped. Charlie is as beautiful as he ever was. In Jean's photo, he's sitting on the floor, at the feet of Jean who was sitting between Lawson and Blake on her other side. Next to him sits Rose, while they're mostly smiling. Charlie looks slightly shocked, like he wasn't ready for the flash. It's such a good representation of him that it still surprises him.

Bill put the photo on his bedside table, so there is never going to be a morning when he can't remember the exact location of every mole and freckle on his neck. The curl of his hair forever embalmed him his memory. The roundness of his jaw the way it always was. Putting the shirt away, he hears screaming downstairs. Analysis: Lawson.

Rose shifts in the room next door, Alice wishes her luck. Bill wonders if he should go down as well, but he decides not to.

…

Jean Beazley arrived at about seven thirty on a Tuesday morning, five and a half years after the end of the world. The first person she met with was Rose, who handed over her work as a copy writer and filer to another woman, Amelia Yorke. She took Jean straight to the station, which operated out of the old station building, to see Bill.

"Miss Anderson." Pause, analysis: She's here. "Mrs Blake."

"Sergeant Hobart."

"Actually it's just Hobart these days." He said, setting down his pen and his report to welcome her across from him into one of the rescued chairs. Ned is watching them, and then offers to make tea. They all decline.

"I hear you are someone of political interest these days." You could say that. Bill had a very minor sway of whatever Tyneman was in charge. (Is it the wife? He's pretty sure it's the wife.) but little more then that.

"Not by choice, Mrs Blake." He assured her, weaving his fingers together. "Where have you come from?" He asked, lips pursed.

"I was indentured, until recently, in Melbourne."

"To?"  
"A woman who made dresses. It wasn't...It wasn't as bad as it could have been. She offered me work when I was free. But..." I missed him. It remains unspoken but clear as a church bell on a Sunday morning. He feels the same when he thinks of Charlie. He wonders if Charlie thinks of him.  
"You want to go home to your husband."  
"I do." Long, long pause.

"I can do that." Bill said, "But I need to explain some things to you first."  
"Alright. Rose explained that you're kind of the household leader."

"Miss Anderson is quite generous." Bill replied, "But yes, if there was a leader I suppose I would qualify." It's been too long since he last got into a fight, he thinks, picking at one of the scabs that he had perpetually along his knuckles.

"Has something happened to Lucien?" Comment, sarcastic: What hasn't happened to Lucien?

"Yes." Bill goes on to explain the damage to his eyes, the fear, the loss, the nightmares, all of it. Jean nods along, taking it all in.

"And you've been taking care of him?"  
"With help from the others. Lawson, Frank, Miss Anderson and Doctor Harvey."  
"And you all live together."

"Care to make it six?" She smiles at him, before she nods her head, inclining that yes. She would. It was anticlimactic. But Jean belonged with Blake, this he knew. And it might free up some of the time he spent shuffling Blake around and reading to him. Describing Jean from pictures. That would be nice, he thought, as Jean and Rose made their way home.

…

There are some things that don't change, Bill thought, a few weeks later, watching Jean read to Blake from the doorway. They look like a comfortably married couple. And he feels jealous of it, despite his desire not to. He'll never have a life like that with Charlie, no matter how much he might want it. Charlie is gone. Even if he wasn't, he'd never seemed like the type to subscribe to marriage. He'd been convinced that there was no way they were temporary, but he supposed every relationship was.

Jean had settled in to the house like she had always been there. She tossed around the idea of finding work, but eventually, she took on the role of a care giver of sorts, thought he despises the term. Mostly she hung around the house and made sure that everyone was okay, at the least. She spent most of her time with Blake, and fair enough. They were married. And her being the one to shuffle him off to this appointment and that meant that he had more time to spend at work.

He watched them for another moment, before turning away. Frank is drinking tea at the table, the cup is chipped and damaged but he doesn't seem to mind.

"What's on your mind?" Frank doesn't talk to them much any more, just his damn plants. Bill slides across from him, and shrugged lightly.  
"I'm just thinking about Charlie."  
" You do that a lot."  
"How would you know?"  
"You get this sort of look, like you're eating several mint creams, all at once." Frank has a blackened tooth in his lower jaw, Bill thinks, frowning again, and tearing his away from it long enough to pick at the scabs on his knuckles. Analysis: This will make them scar. Further analysis: He doesn't care.

"I love him." Bill said, finally. A confessional, of sorts.

"I guessed." Frank replied, "I was in love once as well you know." Bill gave a little smile, and lets his mind drift back to happier times, but he shakes them away quickly. "My wife was something special." Pause. "I would have done anything for her." Analysis: Frank likes talking about his wife. Further analysis: this is not news to you, Bill. Frank had always likes to talk about his wife. Melissa? Madeline? Something along those lines. Consideration, fleeting: Learn his wife's name. Admission: He probably won't.

"I'd do anything for him." Bill said, quickly. He would. He'd give up everything to spend just five more minutes with Charlie.

"See that's love right there." Frank declared, finishing off his tea. Bill didn't say anything else, feeling like he'd exposed himself quite enough for one day.

…

Another thing that didn't change in Ballarat was murder and police politics. Among the jobs he had as the unofficial official leader of the new police force, was meeting with the local leader for an assessment of his practice. He'd never had any fears about it, but he always found it annoying. Still. He wanted to keep his job so he attended.

The Tyneman in charge, the wife, is there with her son, waiting for him in the little conference room she operated from. Like most of the leaders of this place and that, the government had given her a small office and conference room. He took his usual seat, usual scowl plastered onto his face.

"Officer Hobart."

"Ma'am." She has her hands folded neatly together. She is missing the tip of her pointer and her small finger on her left hand. Alice treated her at the hospital after some kind of failed assassination attempt, he is pretty sure, but not certain. Her son looks the same as he always did, if not even more grim now. Bill cannot remember what happened to him just after the end but he assumes it was bad. Wasn't everyone's story these days?

"Well. I had a look at the file you sent." He would hope she did. But he refuses to comment. "And everything looks to be in order." Of course it is. "But I do have a few messages to pass on from Perth." Perth, Melbourne, old government, new government, new police, old police, it was all the same to him.

"Yes?" He asked, keeping his lips pressed into a firm, tight line.

"They want more arrests." Bill remains unmoved. He is quite use to this demand. More arrests. More of this. More of that. More conspirators in jail. More executions.

Personally, Bill had always found the notion of watching executions perverse and used his minor political sway to put forward that executions would only be open to those who were affected by the crime. He still believed that some people weren't fit for the community, but that tiny piece of empathy Charlie had given him said that they weren't monsters. They didn't have to act like that. He never used to be like that, he thought, turning his attention back to the conversation.

"- Of course I told them that you would only be able to arrest anyone who you caught and I wouldn't have you arresting people who hadn't committed a crime." She sounds like she thinks she's doing him a favour.  
"Thank you." He replied, even though he doesn't know if he is grateful that she's defending him doing his job and not breaking the law. She gave him that smile again. Aside from work, they have nothing in common. There is no small talk to be had. She gives him another look.

"They also say they approve of your...Restraining methods. They want more." They wanted Bill to beat up more people? Well. He could certainly do that, if nothing else. Even if he couldn't protect Charlie, or the indentured, he has no qualms about putting his fist into someone's face. He picked idly at a scab on his left knuckle. Lawson was always telling him to stop picking, and they'd heal faster, but Bill can't help himself.

Eventually, he says goodbye, and leaves the room, then the house, and heads back to the station to answer Ned's inevitable inquiries towards the contents of the meeting. He hopes he actually has answers this time. He usually zoned out in the meetings. It wasn't really a one time thing.

…

Blake wants to see him, and this is not good. Blake is more of less uncaring of what he did outside of his caring for him. More often then not, Blake didn't even seem to notice he exsisted outside of wanting something. Which was fine by Bill. He found the man unhinged. Analysis: Something happened to him after the end. Further analysis: He doesn't really care what it is. Does that make him a bad person? Conclusion: Probably.

He found Blake in his office, starring out into space. Analysis: This is not news to you, Bill. Blake spent more time starring into space then he did actually participating in the life they built for themselves.

"Remind me of what Charlie looked like." No greeting, or, how are you doing today Bill. Straight to it, then. He liked that. He had no time to play games any more.  
"How so, Doctor?"

"His face. What it looked like. If anyone would remember, it would be his lover, wouldn't it?" Analysis: Blake knows. Extrapolation: Charlie probably told him.

"It would." Bill crouched down in front of Blake, willing his remaining good eye to look at him. It does. His other eye is pale, milky white, pupil a small faded dot in the centre of his iris. The other is cloudy, the corneal freckle Charlie had always spoken so fondly of almost hidden in the clouds.

"The first thing I ever noticed about him was that he was pale. I don't know if that was just how he was or because it was winter but he was always pale." He began, picking idly at his scabs. "Then I noticed his eyes. They were blue, but depending on the light, they would be deep like the ocean, or washed out. I preferred them in the dark, when they looked like two deep pools of water." He said, using his thumb to blot the blood that was now leaking from the scab he just picked. "He had sort of light eyelashes, they weren't that long, but they were nice. They looked almost blonde in the right light. Eyebrows the same colour. Seemingly too light for that hair." He smiled, rubbing at the small wound he'd just created. "His nose was a bit funny. It had a left tilt, but it was smooth all the way down. He was sensitive about his nose, actually." Bill said, struggling to keep the amused sound out of his voice. He pauses, and then, "His jaw was kind of square shaped, with just enough roundness too it to stop him looking like Lawson. He never let himself grow any stubble, he told me he hated how it felt. I guess I can see that." Analysis: He's side tracked. Objective: Get back on track. "His hair was dark. A very dark brown most of the time. He always wore it styled from the left, and then swept sideways. It was curly when there was no wax in it. Soft, too." He paused, and examined his bloody fingers before moving on. "He had a mole on his left cheek, it was very faint, as well as on his neck, on the same side, just under his chin." He said, "He had broad shoulders, and long fingers. They always looked so agile, his fingers. He hated them, he would tell me that he felt like he should be peeling potatoes with them or something." Bill scoffed. "The back of his hand were covered in veins. Like maps that lead him nowhere." He smiled, remembering kissing those veins, like following his own map to Charlie's finger tips, his true objective. "That was what Charlie Davis looked like."

Blake passes him a handkerchief.

"Wipe your knuckles on that before you infect them." Analysis: He's picking again. Charlie used to pick as well, but his was limited to hangnails, mostly. "You know, Bill. You didn't just lose a lover, in Charlie Davis." Bill knows what he's going to say before he says it. "I lost my friend. A member of my family." Long pause, both of them reflect. "I loved him like a son." Analysis: this is the first time he's admitted this. Further analysis: Charlie would have loved to hear that.

"He'd have loved to hear you say that."

"I know." Blake replies, moving his gaze back into space. "Tell me, Bill, since you're a man about town, how can I help?" Conclusion: Blake is back.


	2. Chapter 2

Murder. In Ballarat. A sentence that made more sense to him then he would care to admit. Aside from the Police Politics, there was always murder. It was part of his job, after all. And now it seemed like there was more of them then ever. Countless Jane and John Doe's ending up in Alice's morgue, and then being buried under the same name. He tried to give names to some, if he recognised them, of named them for their most telling feature, but in the end, the outcome was still the same. They were still a Jane or John Doe.

This week's Jane Doe came from an indentured work place, one that was a bit like a brothel, all things considered. Dancing, mostly, but if you paid extra, sex. Bill never frequented the place himself, lack of time, and lack of desire. But he knew these places existed. How could he not? At least once a month, they got a call out to see the body of this weeks victim.

The victim at the moment was about thirty-ish, short with light hair. Analysis: probably indentured for drugs. She had pin point marks on both of her elbows, as well as scabs littering her arms and face. Analysis: She was beaten to death. Her body was bloody and bruised all over. Further analysis: It was a customer. Extrapolation: they'll defend the customer. It would be open and shut. She was killed by another worker who wanted something from her. The worker is punished, the customer is free to do as they want, which is probably this, again.

And to add insult to injury, there was nothing he could do about it. The city needed these places to operate, and these places needed the city to operate. Mrs Tyneman told him to declare the cases cold. He did. Because he had no choice. Analysis: He did have a choice, and he was making the choice that was best for not only himself but the community.

He allowed Alice access to the body, taking his leave to talk with the owner of the building. Analysis: He thinks Bill is just a stupid copper and believes that he better then everyone else here. Correction: that he is better then everyone else in Ballarat. Bill has no time for the likes of these men. But he bites his tongue for the moment, and allows the man to tell him about the victim. It's the usual spiel about how they were favoured, hated by the others, it's nothing out of the ordinary for these sorts of situations. He asks for the victim's name. Not registered. He asks to speak to who discovered the body. The man smiles, and assures Bill he will have a room set up. Analysis: this cretin thinks he wants to fuck whatever poor soul found the body. He wonders if they will even have anything to tell him.

The room smells like sex, he thinks, sitting on the bed carefully, it looks like it could break at any second. He observes the room. A large bed with sheets. Several boxes, all opened previously, a hook in the ceiling, he knew what type of room this is. Worst of all he finds it unsettling, Ridiculously so. He shouldn't be, and yet, he is.

Outside, there is a knock at the door, signalling the arrival of the suspect. Bill stands, being polite as the small, shaking form is dragged in. Quietly, he'd been begging not today. He's not ready, he's not ready, but he is still brought in. Bill frowns tightly. Analysis: It's Charlie.

"Charlie!" He said, rushing over. Charlie replied by slowly moving him back to the bed so he can sit again. "It's me it's-"

"I know who you are, Bill." He murmurs, kissing along bottom of his jaw. Bill lets him, he's in shock. He doesn't know what to do. He slowly put a hand on Charlie's face. Charlie lets him.

"Why didn't you contact me?" He asks softly. "I've thought about you, every single day." Charlie is looking into him with those empty eyes the indentured often have.

"You were never meant to know." He replied, softly. "You're important now." He tells Bill, "A leader. People look up to you. It would be bad for reputation if you were to be seen with a common whore like myself."

"You are not a whore." Charlie gave him the same sad smile.

"Maybe not when you knew me." He replied, "But you were never meant to know. You were supposed to remember me how I was." He said, putting his hand on Bill's cheek, carefully memorising his face. Bill knows what he must be looking at.

Charlie's hand passed over the top of his cheekbone, down the bridge of his nose, over his lips, the other traced along his left eyebrow, which was paralysed in the raised position, held in place by a thick, but no longer red scar. Charlie leaned forward, and caught his lips in a kiss, before leaning back.

"How much do you owe?"

"Too much." Another kiss. Bill turns his head left, and kisses along the veins on the back of a slender hand. Charlie is so thin now, too thin. He'd always been on the slender side, yes, but he also has a little bit of baby fat left in his cheeks, rounding them out, and a little bit of a stomach, he's never been skinny. He'd certainly never been skin and bone like this, he thought, dragging his eyes down Charlie's exposed chest, his ribs standing to attention like soliders, some mishapen, some bent out of shape. His stomach was all but hollow, but warm against his hand. Charlie is looking at him still with those sad, empty eyes.

"I love you." Analysis: begging.

"I know. I love you too."

"Let me pay your debt. Come home with me."

"No one can pay off that debt, not anymore."

"What happened?"  
"I was almost dead, when they found me. They nursed me back to life, for this life." Some life. "And every night, I thought about you, how you'd taken to protecting Blake, protecting Ballarat, and It gave me a reason to keep going." He smiles again, "I'm so proud of you." He told Bill, laying his head on his shoulder.

"I can."  
"You can't." Charlie's soft, sad voice. "But even if you did, when the drugs where over, you won't love me any more. I'd rather that you kept on knowing the me you loved." He said, shifting his hips and moving so he is sitting on Bill's thighs. He weighs nothing. "Will you give me this? Like how we used to? To remember you by."

"I won't take advantage of you." Bill said, firmly, putting his hands on Charlie's shoulders. "I am going to pay your debt and take you home with me." Charlie smiles slightly, and kisses Bill's cheek. Analysis: Paying the debt will not fix the damage already done. Consideration: Charlie deserves better then this life Further consideration: What about what Charlie wants? Selfish consideration: What if he's right and Bill doesn't love him anymore? Conclusion: Charlie is coming home with him. No matter what.

…

It becomes winter quite quickly now. It didn't use to, but Bill thinks that the end changed everything around in the atmosphere or whatever. He thinks about Charlie, with his small wrists and ribs standing to attention and he wonders if he is warm. He probably isn't.

It took little to convince the group to contribute money to a sort of 'save Charlie' fund. Most of the money comes from Bill's own paycheck, but he will do without. He has been doing without for years. He will do without until Charlie is safely tucked away in his arms. Sudden consideration: Charlie has been kept as an indentured doing God only knows for five years. He may never want to be held by anyone ever again. That upsets him, for some reason, but he's not sure how to deal with it.

What he does know, is that the death rates go up in the wintertime, so he and Ned will go around to the poorer homes and deliver blankets and spread news of the meetings in townhall where you could get warm and get food at the price of a fire log in the middle of winter. He runs them, usually, hoping to see Charlie there among the hungry and the cold.

Analysis: these thoughts are pointless. You know where Charlie is, Bill. He'd always thought that he would simply burst in, guns a-blazing to save the love of his life if he ever found him but he has to look out for the others now. Charlie would be upset with him if he sabotaged friend's lives, this he knows. Admission: Bill also cares very much about those lives, even if he would never say it to their faces. Further admission: Bill would also do many things to protect those fools, not only because Charlie cares about them but because he cares about them. He frowned tightly as he and Ned headed into the building, arms full of blankets.

The woman thanked him a dozen times over for them. She is heavily pregnant, thin and small but not underfed. She kisses him on both cheeks and wraps another child tightly in the blankets. It is a very sweet moment, Bill thought, as he turned his back on the scene, following Ned out. Analysis: He would have wanted that with Charlie some day. Conclusion, sad: Impossible. Not only biologically, but he would never willingly bring a child into the state of things. It was unfair and unjust. It was life.

He and Ned returned to the car, heading to the next home on their list. Ned is silent. Reminder: Ned never talked much. Analysis: Ned saw something.  
"Are you alright?" Bill asked, finally. Ned gave him a slightly alarmed look.

"Yes?"  
"You seem a bit quiet these days. I worry about you."

"You shouldn't." Analysis: This is going nowhere, fast. Bill drops it for now. Ned was always odd. Maybe the end of the world just made it worse?

…

It is a further week into the icy cold wintertime before Bill has finally collected the funds he needs for Charlie. Bringing Lawson along with him, they arrived at the building and made their way inside. The walls were lined with peeling paper and the roof chipped plaster. It was a falling apart as every other building in this rotten world. Approaching the counter, Bill cleared his throat. A young woman rushed out to meet them.

"Can I help you, officer and..."

"Officer." Analysis: Lawson would work in law enforcement if he could. Analysis: Again, not news Bill.

"Yes. We're here to pay off a debt." Bill said, confidently. Perhaps more then he felt.

"Which debt?" She asks, sickly sweet.

"Davids." She looks at a book for a few minutes, before taking the money.

"Be seated while I take this to the boss." She said, leaving. They sit. And they wait. It takes hours, but after several, Charlie is led out, small and shaking and almost naked. Bill proceeds to wrap him in blankets and his coat, not saying thankyou, as he and Lawson went out to their car.

Charlie sits in the back seat of the large machine with Bill. The machine as it was, is the name Bill has given the two tone vanguard that serves as their method of transport. Charlie is shivering badly by the time they're in the back of the car, and is gratefully pressing his face into Bill's shoulder so that he can leech the extra body warmth from him. Bill is happy to give it. It's a fairly long drive back to the house, and he decides that he will spend this time filling Charlie in.

"You'll like the house."He assures Charlie, "Everyone is there."  
"Everyone?" He asks, closing his eyes. "The Doctor?"  
"He's there." Pause, "He works in the hospital with Doctor Harvey. He's excited to see you." Charlie nods, and tucks his face up against Bill's collar bone.

"I miss him." He whispered. Bill put a hand in Charlie's hair.

"He misses you." He smiled dreamily, and Bill lets him sleep, deciding against talking any more.

Arriving with a shudder, the car pulled out the front of the house. Alice and Frank came out, loaded with even more blankets for Charlie. Bill was not surprised to see that he hadn't even woken up when he was moved. With Alice's help, he took him up to his old room and wrapped him in thick blankets, tucking him under as many layers as he dared.

He spent three hours sitting there, watching Charlie's breathing, as if it might stop suddenly. It doesn't. But it could and that's what keeps him here. He is thinking of the good old days.

Charlie's hands undoing the buttons on his shirt, lips on his neck, his hand on Charlie's left hip. Charlie tucked up against his chest, the blanket around their shoulders, the burning of the fire. At some point, Blake comes in and takes a seat next to him, his good eye taking Charlie all in. He looks to Bill, who is still seats. He stands so Blake can have prime the prime Charlie viewing spot. He looks over at Bill, probably more out of habit then by actually being able to see him.

"You were right." Analysis: No. Further analysis: Wrong. Bill does not like those words coming out of Blake's mouth towards him, especially not in this context. He has no idea how to tell Blake how wrong he sounds. "He's in a bad way." Bill half wants to yell 'and what would you know, you stupid old man? While I was out looking for him and working you were here pitying yourself, but he doesn't. Blake is just that: A stupid old man. It would be cruel to insult him. "He'll have to detox from whatever they had him on. He'll probably want you here for that."

"Well doctor some of us have to work for a living. Not all of us are so lucky as to have the head of police paying their way." He leaves, soon after, still angry, still bitter, and one thing on his mind: he is cruel.

…

While he detoxed, the only person Charlie would let near him is Blake, and Bill wonders if this is some kind of divine retribution. Analysis: He doesn't believe in that bullshit any more. Observation, desperate: He wants something to believe in. Charlie believes in Blake, he always has, this Bill knows for sure, and it was solidified here. When he wasn't pretending to solve murders, Bill finds himself standing awkwardly around Charlie's bedroom, the ghost of his face pressed up against his neck. If he stands close enough to the door, he can hear Charlie talking on the inside of the room. He doesn't have to be in there to know how they're sitting.

Charlie is lying in Blake's lap, his head facing the door. There will be a blanket over his legs and a bucket on the floor where it can easily be reached. Charlie is speaking softly. Analysis: You're eavesdropping, Bill. Addendum: Shut up! Shut up! Listen!

"He wasn't meant to come back. You weren't meant to see me like this."

"He loves you, Charlie. We all do."

"I'm no good now. No one was meant to know." He wants to shake Blake by the shoulders. Tell him! Tell him! Tell him there there is nothing better in this world then Charlie Davis. But Blake says nothing. He imagines the man is probably coming his fingers through Charlie's hair. Observation: Jealousy. He wants to put his hands in Charlie's hair. "I'm ruined. Nothing left. You won't love me long after the drugs are gone. No detox, no excuse." He said, nearly delirious again. "There's nothing left for you to love. None of you were meant to see me like this. I was just meant to fade away." Quiet. Bill wants to scream. He appears in the door way. Charlie looks at him for several moments, before looking away and muttering something to Blake.

"Bill, could you go get Charlie a glass of water please?" Analysis, implication: Go away.

He does.

...

As much as Bill wanted to spend every minute at home watching over Blake and Charlie, he couldn't. He still had to work. Like today, he and Ned were trying to close the book on yet another murder. The woman appeared to be killed in cold blood. Bill disagreed, but then again, he disagreed with many things these days. He tossed a glance at Ned, who was examining the fingernails of the victims.

"Nothing underneath." He told Bill, who was still standing, with his hands wrapped around his upper body.

"Not surprising."  
"What makes you say that?"  
"She's a run away." Bill replied, finally squatting next to Ned in the dirt. "She's not dressed for this weather. A slip? Out here?"

"People underdress all the time."

"No shoes."

"Bill..."

"And look here." Bill said, holding up her arm and showing Ned her arm, there is a spotting of needle marks dotted along it.

"She was using."

"I think she was a run away."

"There's foot prints." Wardlaw.

"We'll follow them." Bill said, standing. "Ned, stay with the body. Make sure no one touches it until Doctor Harvey gets here." Ned nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. Penny set off, and Bill trailed just behind. The ground was mostly mud this time of year. Frank was upset because it was killing his vegetables. Bill was neither here nor there on the cold. After all: He could warm up when it's cold but he finds it hard in the unrelenting heat of the summer time.

The foot prints seemingly go on forever. Analysis: She must have been so scared. Purple toes and bloody hair flash past his memory. Stop this, Bill. You won't help her by thinking about her body, not yet. Find where she came from. Find a name for her. Give her something. If Penny has idea what he's thinking, she doesn't say it. They just keep going forward, following the footsteps in the dirt.

Eventually, she stops.  
"What?"

"Looks like we've got blood here." Analysis: She's right. Consideration: Was she attacked here? Bill went down onto his haunches next to her. "A few drops. Here. There." Analysis: Splatter.

"She may have been shot here, and then kept on going until she went down." Penny nods, and both of them look around.  
"I'll stay here, you go on." Bill nodded, and got back to his feet, following the footsteps. Hopefully, this woman would lead him right to the killer. He finds that as he walks, he wouldn't mind some company. His gun feels heavy holstered to his leg. A lot of other people had guns now, not just the police. It was for protection. Wife-Tyneman had insisted on it, even if he thought it would make more people dislike them.

He'd never liked guns much himself. Which was odd, because he liked most other violent weapons like bats or knuckle dusters. Maybe it was because guns took the fun out of it. Maybe he's remembering Cooper. Analysis: No good worrying about the past now, Bill. Find who killed this girl. Avenge her.

Bill put a hand on his own gun one of the old police mens service weapons though he doesn't know what one. It's not his. He probably won't need it, but it's a lot better to be safe then sorry in his mind. He kept going.

Eventually, the foot prints stop. They're at the back of a building and it's one he knows. An indentured work place, a brothel. The one where the woman was found. The one where Charlie came from. In that moment, a choice was made for Bill Hobart. Objective: He was going to bring them down. No matter what.


	3. Chapter 3

The room smells like smoke these days, is what he thinks of Lawson's space in Blake's Mother's studio. Matthew had taken to smoking these last few years as some kind of coping mechanism. Bill doesn't come in here very often, he's never had any need. But now he craves companionship, so here he is.

"Do you want one?" He shakes his head no as Lawson lights one up. He draws in the smoke and lets it out again.

"Those things will kill you."  
"Hope so." Analysis: he's only partially joking. "What brings you to see me, Bill."

"Lonely."

"Charlie's back, and you're lonely?"  
"Charlie won't even look at me."

"Don't blame him." Analysis: This is a joke. Further analysis: His feelings are hurt. He's well aware that Charlie could easily have gone after someone much more beautiful then him. He used to take pride in that Charlie loved him.

"Thanks."

"Welcome. Did I ever tell you about the time that the guy next to me was shot in Africa?" Yes. Several times. Lawson doesn't seem to be able to remember exactly what stories he's told and what ones he hasn't. Bill listens anyway. When the story is over, he feels thoughtful.

"I wouldn't worry about Charlie." Lawson advised, halfway through his story about snipers and no mans land.

"Hm?" Sarcasm, internal: Nice, Bill.

"Charlie. He'll come back to you." Analysis: Maybe. Maybe Charlie will spend the rest of his life hiding in the bedroom. Bill doesn't know. Consideration: Maybe Bill will let him.

"I don't know."  
"He loves you." Bill scoffs, and tightly folded his arms around his chest for several moments. He scoffs again, this time, much more wetly. His scoffs turn into a small, sad laugh. He wipes his face and looks back at Lawson.

"Maybe he used to."

"Do you love him?" Lawson is unperturbed by his laughing.

"More then anything." Analysis: This is the truth. He'd give everything and everyone up to be with Charlie. Perhaps this is his weakness. Matthew sucks in a deep lungful of smoke. Bill used to smoke. He gave it up because he couldn't get cigarettes any more post end of the world. It's never occurred to him that he could start smoking again. He could find where Lawson got his from probably. Analysis: Why? He still wants to smoke occasionally, but not bad enough that he's actually gone out and got his hands on them, even if there is probably a huge tobacco market in Ballarat these days.

"Then you have nothing to worry about." Lawson doesn't go back into his story, rather, looks out the window, and up at the paintings.

"Why did you chose this room?"

"The couch looked comfortable."  
"No, really." Lawson gave him a shrug.

"No idea."

"Really?"  
"Nope." Pause. "Not everything has a reason, Bill."

"I know. I just thought there might be a reason why you'd pick here."

"It was convenient." Bill looks out the window as well. Analysis: He's telling the truth. Further analysis : Bill might be losing his mind himself. Consideration: He's also had a really bad day.

…

Charlie is lying in a field next to him, both of them are looking up at the sky, as clouds drift past them. They're holding hands. One of Bill's hands is pulling up clumps of grass. Analysis: You've never been able to keep anything beautiful before. So you destroy it before it destroys you. Further analysis: Charlie Davis will destroy you.

The sun is warm, but not hot. A pleasant breeze is pushing air past their faces. Consideration: If you destroy him, then you will destroy yourself. Analysis: There will be nothing left of him without Charlie.

Small ladybugs flitter past, wings buzzing in the breeze. He looks over at Charlie and he is beautiful. The sunlight gives him a pleasant glow. His eyes are enormous oceans of blue. Charlie is young and beautiful. Bill looks at his hand. It's melting away from the bone, decomposing while he was still alive.

His eyes travel up his arm. Rot and dirt and blood and petrified tissue. Analysis: He's been dead for some time, then. No rigor. He can't even move any of his limbs. He's lying here, dying, with Charlie in a pleasant field. Birds, heavy and fat sit on his stomach, ingesting him. Charlie smiles at him.

What a wonderful way to go.

…

He always dreams of Charlie Davis.

…

"What the Hell is wrong with you, Hobart?" In the busy previous month, Bill had almost forgotten about his obligation to provide the government with his report. He doesn't know exactly what thing she is asking him, given that there is quite a lot wrong with him. He waits for elaboration.

"You have always been the most aggressively against the indentured, and then I come in to work one morning, and find out that you've gone and brought one?" Analysis: She doesn't understand the situation. Further analysis: Bill, you don't even understand the situation. She was right though, he'd always been someone who opposed them, even if there was nothing he could do about it. "You are an important member of this community, Bill. You cannot just do as you please any more!" She yelled, hands in the air, exasperated. Bill looked down at his hands, considering his scarred knuckles.

The other Tyneman is silent and still, eyes glazed over, starring straight ahead. Bill ignores him, finding him more and more unsettling by the day.

"My God, Bill. And that's not even the end of it, now I hear that you're not closing cases?" She demands, shaking Bill's report in one hand. He steels himself.

"I'm a police officer. I solve cases. A week is not nearly enough time to call a case cold." Tyneman looks like she might slap him.

"You're delusional." She said, sitting back. "You're not a cop, not any more. You're a glorified mercenary, at best. You're not here to solve cases, like the old days. You're here to stop threats and beat criminals." She said, letting out a breath, as if Bill was a child. Bill finds his left hand digging into the palm of his right.

"Alright. Here's what you're going to do."His eyes narrowed. Analysis: She doesn't know anything. "You're going to take your slave, return him to where you got him from, and take your money back. And then, you're going to go to the station, and close those two cases, alright?"

"No."

"No?"  
"No." Analysis: Insubordination. "You really don't understand, do you?" Long pause; consideration. "This community? I look after them. I'm the one that ensures they have food. I'm the one who drives rations out to those who cant go get them. I'm the one, who has to stand with corpses while the doctor comes out. I'm the one who has to give them names. I'm the one who has to close files and leave them without closure." Several seconds pass. "I look after my family, my station, my home and despite all of this, everything I do for you, you want to take my only happiness away from me?" He stands. "He's not just some servant I took on to suck me off. He's by best and closest friend. How dare you tell me that I don't get it, when all you do, is sit around in your little office, pissing down upon those of us who work out asses off for this community?" He demanded.

"Bill!"

"Officer Hobart." He corrected, turning on his heel, and storming out, making it all the way to his car before he broke down.

Analysis: Breaking down is not fixing any of your problems, Bill. Further analysis: If anything, it's creating more problems for you. He rests his head on the steering wheel, and he waits for it to pass, this urge, this sadness. Crying will not stop Charlie's pain. Crying will not avenge that woman. Crying will not fix anything, and yet. And yet. He has no idea how long he sat there, waiting, waiting, head resting on the steering wheel, before he decided it would be best to get back to the station; Ned would be waiting for him.

…

He arrived home that evening, quite late. Dinner had been made, served and eaten and some people had already retired to bed. The only ones left awake were Rose and Alice, as well as Frank. Analysis: This is probably more because they are sitting on his bed rather then any desire of his to be awake. He wants to o to sleep as well, but stops by the living room on his way through.

Rose smiles at him, Alice nods. Frank doesn't reply. The usual, then.

"You were gone all day."

"I had a lot to do." Analysis: True, but he didn't do any of it. He spent most of the day working on his case against the work house and beating the suspects in custody. So far, one of them has revealed the location of the murder weapon when Bill threatened to break his fingers. (Bill still broke his fingers.) Rose nods, and looked at his swollen and bruised hands for a minute, before looking away, slightly shaken.

"I'm going to bed." He reveals, "I assume Blake has settled Charlie for the night?"  
"Yes, in his studio. Lawson's taken one of the upstairs bedrooms." Alice. Analysis: Charlie should be in his bed, not in the studio like a rejected dog. But he's too tired, not to mention not wanted, to fix it, so he goes up to the room that belongs to Charlie but has somehow become his.

On his bed, naked aside from a pair of well worn boxer shorts, Charlie is waiting for him.

"Bill." Analysis: Oh, God! Further analysis: At least that was internal. Small mercies. Charlie looks like someone broken apart and then put back together, that's how many scars have taken their time to mar him. Even now, he is skinny beyond belief, eyes empty and sad, devoid of fire, or anything that Bill may have been attracted to in their previous life. Those moments, those meetings, they're gone now, replaced by a hollowness all their own. Nothing flips in his stomach. Nothing spurs him forward to kiss and bite at him. All he can do, is stand and stare. "I owe you quite a lot these days." He smiled, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "After all you've done for me, don't you think I should start paying off my debt?" Clearly, he's trying to sound alluring, but it's coming across as sad. A slightly lisp has begun on his words, from a poorly healed cracked jaw.

"What?" Sarcasm, internal: Good one, Bill.

"My debt, Bill. I've cost you so much, and you've been so good to me." Bill, suddenly, is plagued by an urge to beat something, or someone. Something meaty, something that would be satisfying to hit. Evidently, that can't be Charlie. He tries to summon up words, but they don't come. Nothing comes. "Bill?"

"No."Second time today he's said that. What an odd thought. Charlie is staring at him, now, with those big blue eyes, trying to study him. Bill has nothing he can say other then no. "Go to bed, Charlie." He said, after a minute. "I've had a long day." Charlie keeps watching him, before standing, wrapping himself in his dressing gown Bill won't admit to having stolen, and went back downstairs.

Bill didn't dream at all that night, actually. A beautiful, blissful, nothing that stretched for miles and miles all around him, welcoming him into it's sweet and warm embrace.

…

"Alice has been telling me about what exactly it is you do, Bill." Since Blake took up work at the hospital, he'd also been learning more about life as it was these days, to Jean's chargrin. Lucien Blake, up until very recently, had existed totally in a bubble. His bubble of missing Jean. Now, with it having been popped, he's forced to see the world as it was. That is to say, he's been in the process of desensitising himself.

"Has she?" Analysis: Oh boy. No response for several moments, then

"You mark unsolved cases as cold within hours."  
"Yes."

"That's not enough time." Analysis: No shit, Sherlock. Blake is still going. "People out there have lost so much, and you can't even be bothered to look into a simple murder or attack? What's even the point of having the police?" Bill looks at him, angry, fuming, and he feels apathy, then anger. Analysis: You're slipping, Bill.

"How dare you?"

"How dare I? How dare I? Bill I'm not the one who is favouring a system you claim to hate over people!"

"Yes, how dare you? How dare you judge me, and what I've done without offering anything yourself?" He asked. "I didn't have to stay here and look after you, I chose to. I don't have to support you. I chose to. Hell, I don't have to listen to you, but I chose to. Every choice I make, good or bad, I've made for the good of this family. For these people!" He said, "Everyone was counting on you, to save us. We all thought that you would come through for us, you'd save the day, because you were Lucien Blake and of course you would But you didn't. Just shut yourself up in that little room of yours, missing Jean, Jean!"

"I love her!"

"And you think the rest of us don't love people?" He demanded. "You think you're the only person in this house who lost someone?" Blake stills, shaken. "Everyone in this house, lost someone. While you were moping around, pining over Jean someone had to do something. And that someone was me." He said, swallowing a mouthful of saliva, his fist curls into a tight ball. Analysis: He still wants to punch someone. Consideration: It can't be Blake, Charlie would never forgive him. "You are welcome back. You can stay here. But you do not get to judge me for what I've done for this family. Those people were missed, are still missed. I do everything in my power to look into their cases, but these things are out of my hands." He said, "Did that not even cross your mind? That maybe it's not a choice of mine? Or did you just think Bill Hobart is such a monster, clearly he doesn't feel human empathy!"

Blake is giving him a weird look, and Bill has no idea why.  
"Bill?" Analysis: Wet face. Further analysis: You're crying, Bill. It's been too long since he last cried. He forgot what it felt like, and hadn't noticed when he started crying before. He reaches up with one hand to wipe the back of his face. He let out a little gasp when he saw tears on the back of his hand. He still manages to surprise himself, sometimes.

"I'm crying." He said, realising Blake can't even see him.

"I know." Blake replied, before opening his arms, offering him the comfort. Bill thinks that he could. And maybe he should. His knees are shaking. He falls to his knees, and, after that, he allows Blake to hold him close.

Blake tucks his head up against his chest, and he can hear his heart beating in his chest. He's still crying, trying to will the tears to stop, but he's been holding up for so long, being strong for so long, working so hard for so long. It takes him only a few seconds to see why Charlie would seek a father figure in the older man. He was warm, strong, and for just a few seconds, it felt as though he was the only person in the whole universe that mattered. His hands have curled tightly in Blake's undershirt, and still he can't pull away.

Everything is wrong. It has taken little more then a week for the nice little life Bill made for himself to crumble down around him. So here he was, holding close to a man that he's never even thought of as a friend much less a confidant. Analysis: this is bad and not good. Further analysis: he also is unable to care, or even make any proper analysis. Objective: Stop crying. He notes, now, that his crying has gone up an octave, and he is gasping to pull air into his lungs. It takes almost five minutes before he is able to stop crying, but he's not quite ready to pull away yet. Thankfully, Blake appears to understand.

"I'm sorry." Blake sounds like he actually means it. "Bill, I." He stops, deep breath, tries again. "I didn't know. I didn't. I'm sorry, that I couldn't be more help, back then." Bill doesn't really have a reply for that, because it wasn't okay. Maybe it could be, some day, but it's not right now.

"Tyneman wants me to send Charlie away."

"I presume you won't do that." Bill gives a very thin, watery smile.

"No. I can't." He casts his eyes up. Blake is staring off into space, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Alice had said it was only a matter of time before he lost the sight he had in his other eye as well. Bill wonders what he will do then. He wonders what Jean will do then. He wishes he could have done something to stop it, although what he doesn't know.

"What are you going to do?" Bill sat back, slowly.

"I'm going to do what you do best."

"That is?"  
"Annoy the hell out of my boss." Blake's chuckle sounds like music to him.

…


	4. Chapter 4

"And you're sure about this?"

"As I can be." Bill frowned and read through the sheet again.

"And he's the only one?"  
"All our dead women met with him just before their deaths." Ned, ever the champion, has come up

with a suspect in their case.

"Good work, Ned." Bill said, after a moment. Penny nods in agreement. "I think, that we should pay our friend here a little visit. He works for the work houses, doesn't he?"

"Independent contractor. Manages the debts." Bill nods, pleased. He stands, and tucked his gun away into his holster. Ned does the same, Penny elects to stay behind.

The drive there feels so much longer then it should.

"Bill, does it ever feel like we aren't making a difference?"

"How so?"

"Even if we get this guy, next week, there'll be another one. Every family get blankets to, but the next week another one freezes."

"I think we make a difference in specific lives. I think we can save lives. I think we're doing good work." Ned nods again.

"I uh. I have a confession as well."  
"Alright."  
"I uh. I was the one who told Mrs Tyneman about Charlie." Analysis: You're angry. Analysis: You can't beat your own workforce, Bill.

"Why?" He's pretty proud of how he isn't yelling yet. Ned seems to be able to sense the anger coming off of him in waves, rolling into an ocean filled with hate.

"I was, do you remember that girl two weeks ago?"  
"I do." Analysis: Bill Hobart is a liar, liar pants on fire.

"Well. I just kept thinking about her. God. She was so young. And I was talking to other women, making my case against him, and I saw you there, with Lawson. I didn't. I didn't realise it was Charlie. I thought you were just being a hypocrite. I'm sorry."

Objective: forgive Ned.

"I forgive you. For the record, I think that you did the right thing. You didn't know the whole story, and I know I'd be telling the boss lady if I saw you buying a slave." Ned breathes a sigh of relief. Bill doesn't like forgiving people too much. Made him feel weird. "I didn't tell anyone because he wouldn't want anyone to know."  
"I know. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions like that." Bill sighed softly, and looked out at the grey skies of what used to be Ballarat. Distantly, he remembers lying in bed with Charlie, his feet curled around Bill's, both of them watching the sun rise through his shutters.

"I'll live."

"Thanks." They drive in silence for another long few minutes. "Just one last thing."  
"Yes?"  
"I think you're a good boss." Bill pursed his lips for a moment, and then nodded.  
"Thank you. Now. I say we go arrest ourselves a bastard."

Upon their arrival, both Bill and Ned are out on the ground. There was no longer any need for laws regarding search warrants, they had executive power over everyone. And of course, free will to be violent. Upon their entry, the clerk seems surprised to see him again.

"We don't do refunds."  
"I'm not looking for one." Bill replies, making his way up to the counter. "I'm looking for your debt manager. Roman Dallens."

"He's in his office. He's not taking on new clients right now."

"Take us to him." Ned, surprisingly dark. Previously, Bill has not considered Ned someone of great strength, turns out he was wrong. As it turns out, Ned is very strong, though perhaps he could show it more. And perhaps he is a little bit sneaky as well, investigating this behind Bill's back. Hm.

Both he and Ned turn, and follow her to his office. They make it three steps in before the shot rings out. Ned falls. Analysis: He's been shot. Further analysis: Yeah. No shit, Bill. Time slows down. Bill drops to his knees, his hands reaching out at the speed of a snail. Red bubbles up under Ned's shirt. Consideration: Bill does not know if this is fatal or not. Analysis: How will he save Ned? Objective: Save Ned Simmons. Objective: Save Ned Simmons. Objective: Save Ned Simmons. Analysis: Someone is screaming for someone to get to a hospital. Analysis: Someone is running. Objective: Save Ned Simmons.

There are few things Bill Hobart is good at. There are some, but not many. Being violent is something that he excels in, however. That, and anger. Looking at the bruised, flesh shaped lump that currently called itself Roman Dallens, he used his hand to crack his knuckles again, enjoying the pop and crunch.

Nothing made him happier, these days, then enjoying these violent moments. After all, wasn't that what people thought of him as? Lucien Blake thought that he didn't care about people, and that he was willingly refusing to investigate cased. Ned Simmons and Mrs Tyneman both thought he was going to keep a servant in his house for him to use and abuse. People wanted a monster. They wanted someone with no feeling, no sense of self, just a deep, rolling ocean of anger. They wanted a monster? Bill was never one to disappoint a crowd.

Analysis: Feels good to punch something.

…

The part of the hospital where they're keeping Ned is half crumpled in on itself. Despite the warning signs put up around the outside of it, probably to stop people walking there, it did little to disguise the dreary atmosphere around here. Nearby, there is a woman with her leg in a traction being tended to by a woman with thick, red hair pulled back from her face in a plait. On his other side, there is a man with an IV in his arm who looks small and pale and wasting away.

Ned is in front of him, lying still and pale and in blankets. There was no one at his boarding house willing to visit him, so Bill is alone. It's late at night, only by the grace of Alice that he is allowed to sit in here. Above them, there is a yellow light cast by a dying bulb.

Analysis: He's alive. Consideration, pessimistic: But for how long? The infection was a bad one. A nurse came round, by Bill's count, hourly to check him. She's never had any answers for him. No one has. He is sitting on an upturned milk crate, wondering what the hell he was meant to do. Not just about Ned, but Charlie too. In the events leading up to this, Charlie had, for the first time, not been at the forefront of his mind. But he was now.

When he went home, before, Charlie, as it seemed, was avoiding him more then usual. He still didn't know how he was going to deal with that. /If/ he was going to deal with that. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd just let Charlie do as he pleased, whatever that happened to be. Analysis: No, Bill, you won't do that.

Next to him, a white coat overturns a milk crate and sits. He turns to face Alice with a small sigh. She looks back and twitches on perfect eyebrow. Something he'd always admired about Alice: She was always well put together. She'd told him once that she couldn't control many things, but she could control her damn face so that was what she was going to do. Even as late as it is, the only sign of imperfection on her face was the beginnings of smudge around the border of her lips.

"He's not going to magically get better because you sat here all night."  
"I know. I just...I just don't want him to wake up alone." Alice lets out a breath of air that he rather suspects is a laugh, and folds her arms over her chest.

"Will you let me take a look at your hands?" Bill looked down at his cracked knuckles and bloody hands and gave a small nod. Alice took his hand and a roll of bandages from her pocket. Bill took the opportunity to study her face. In recent months, she'd taken to cutting her hair short, to stop it getting in her way. Along her left cheek, there is a scar that had needed three stitches. He remembers because he had to give them. He still remembers the amount of blood, going everywhere, Alice, remarkably calm, instructing his shaking fingers how to tuck the sides of the wound together. He'd been surprised he'd been able to do it. His hands had never known how to be gentle.

Carefully, she wrapped the gauze over a soft cotton pad on his knuckles. He watched, frowning slightly. She released one hand, and took the other.  
"What would Ballarat do without you, Doctor Harvey?"

"I imagine all of you would have died from cholera."

"Ballarat would surely fall." Alice scoffed, and released his hand.  
"Should I be tending to...Whoever shot Simmons?"

"Hm." She sighed quietly, Bill can feel her disappoint. Pause.

"How did you do it?"  
"Do what?"  
"Keep yourself and Charlie a secret. For so long?"  
"It wasn't really a choice."

"Did it ever stop hurting?" Bill blew a little puff of air out of his lips, and licked the bottom of his molars in thought. He wished he could lean back on his milk crate.

"No. It didn't." Analysis: Charlie's not dead, Bill. "Doesn't."

"Not the. Not the hiding. Being in love, I mean." Bill pursed his lips, and considered that he and Alice had similar upbringings. She had taken to healing, and he'd taken to destroying. He'd accepted violence as a part of him, she'd rejected it. Two sides of the same coin. Two mirroring pains.

"I think it does, eventually." She nods, and looks at Ned.  
"He doesn't have anyone, does he?" Bill nods. "Will he be moving in?" She asked, changing the subject now it was too personal for her. He understands, really. Analysis: He's actually glad. This conversation was far too personal for him, too.

"Yes. I suppose he will."

…

Bill can't explain what woke him. But something, God, intuition, Charlie's heavy breathing, something woke him. His eyes opened into the dark bedroom, and for a few seconds, he wonders if he just woke himself up, until his eyes flicker left. Above his face, to the left, is a pillow, being held by two long fingered hand's he'd know anywhere, with the intention of smothering him.

"Charlie?" He's panicking, inside, but he takes in a deep breath and releases it, trying to cool his nerves. Charlie doesn't move for several seconds, and Bill tries to speak to him again. "Charlie, why don't you put the pillow down?" Long pause. Bill waits. Then, Charlie drops the pillow onto the floor. It lands with a tiny thud. He lets out a sigh of relief and sits up. Charlie is standing there, in his pyjamas, looking oddly disinterested in what just happened.

"What happened?" Bill asked, slowly sitting up. Charlie speaks.

"All I could think was I had to kill you. I had to free myself from debt so I could run." Bill turns so his legs are off the side of the bed. "Wasn't 'till I was standing here that I realised that the end of that sentence, was run back to you." Bill got to his feet, and pulled Charlie up against him as the other's knees went out underneath him. Bill settled them both on the floor, and pulled Charlie into his arms and up to his chest. In a strange parody in the hug he shared with Blake, Charlie's long, slender fingers grasp firmly onto his night shirt. He is crying. Looking up, he notes Rose in the doorway, holding a lantern near her face.

"Get Blake." He mouthes. Charlie begins to cry harder.

"I don't want Blake! I want you." He sobbed, still unsure, still unaware. Bill pulled him closer still and pressed his nose into Charlie's hair. He smells like oil and smoke. Like Lawson. "Just let me stay here, please." He said, and Bill wants to hold him and never let go.

Blake never comes. Eventually, Charlie stops crying, and is only sniffing, still pressing himself as close to Bill as he can. Bill finds himself staring off into space, unable to concentrate for too long on anything much. Eventually, he leans down and kisses Charlie's forehead. Charlie sniffs a little louder then usual.

"I loved you." He's so quiet. It's like they're both wrapped in cloth and are trying to speak through it.

"And you don't any more?"

"I don't think I can." He whispered. "I don't feel anything any more." He said, softly. Bill held him close, and kissed his hair.

"You will." He said, still holding him close. "Promise." Pause.

"Do you love me, still?"  
"I never stopped." He murmured, both of them sitting on the floor of Charlie's bedroom that became Bill's bedroom. He wonders, too weary to analyse, if this is a start.

…

Ned is awake, finally. Still confined to the hospital, Bill is pleased to see him up and at it again. Ned has apologised a dozen times over for being careless, but Bill found himself saying it was fine, over and over again. Alice delivers him a cup of tea. Ned is sleeping again. He sleeps a lot, he's recovering. He takes a sip, finding it black. He never used to like black tea, but now there's no sugar and no milk, it's all he can have. She has her own cup as well. The teacups are chipped and soot has stained them The pattern of flowers is long faded from their surface.

"You seem in a slightly better mood then usual. What happened with Charlie?"  
"He kissed me." Bill smiled, taking a long sip of his drink. Alice smiles at him. A private little smile. One she didn't share with many people.  
"So he's still interested in you, then?"  
"I think so. I hope so." Bill said, sipping his tea. It's bitter, and it tastes like leaves in water. What all tea tasted like these days. He misses milk and sugar more by the minute. Alice always struck him as someone who liked to take her tea black regardless. Or perhaps with honey. He'd never understood that, tea with honey. Alice looked over at Ned.

"He'll be home by the end of the month, I think. I just want to make sure nothing else gets infected." He nodded,  
"I understand." She looked back down into her cup, and then to him, that strange look in her eyes. One he didn't much understand.

"Would you ever have told?" Analysis: Isn't it odd he knows what she means, without elaboration?

"I suppose we would have had to, at some point. Charlie wouldn't have been happy, like that."

"What would you have said?"  
"I would have met with our closest friends, told them that I love Charlie, and want to do everything I can ever do to protect him for the rest of my life. They can think what they will, arrest me if they want, but I will always love him." She took a sip of tea. So did he.  
"But you didn't."  
"No. We didn't. But I think some of them knew."  
"I didn't."  
"We weren't exactly friends." Pause.  
"Are we friends now?"

"I like to think so."  
"You don't know?"  
"Never had much in the way of friends." Sarcasm, Internal: Yea? And whose fault is that?

"Well, I think that we are. And we will always be."  
"Very poetic."

"It's the end of the world, who knows. We might die tomorrow." Bill scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous." Alice nodded.

"You're right. That was cruel. I'm sorry." He made a dismissive hand gesture in reply, indicating that it did not in fact matter. She was right, after all.

Upon returning home, he sought out Charlie, who was sitting in the living room, reading. He took a seat next to him and leant over to look at what he was doing.  
"Anne of Green Gables?"  
"I thought I may have forgotten how to read."  
"Have you?"  
"No, thankfully." Analysis: Not much need for reading in a work house, then.

"Are you enjoying it?"  
"I guess." Charlie is still so beautiful, Bill thought, smiling at him. He was much happier now, then he was. More willing to talk, and be open and thankfully, less willing to smother him in his sleep. Small mercies.

After several moments, Charlie put his head on Bill's shoulder.

"Read to me?"  
"Hm?"

"I can't really see the words sometimes." Analysis: Blindness? Further analysis: How was he going to look after two blind men?  
"I can." Bill said, settling in to read. As he read, other members of the house slowly joined them. Blake sat in his armchair. Lawson claimed the seat next to Charlie. Rose took up on an arm rest and Frank on the floor. It was, very oddly, peaceful. And for not the first time in his life, he wants it to stay this way forever. He deserved that, didn't he? To find peace? After all they'd been through, didn't all of them deserve that, that little happiness, that little joy? And if reading a childrens book to them was going to give them that joy, even if just for a few seconds, then he would read forever. And no one would hold that against him, would they?

…

There is something about Rose Anderson, and Bill can see why people would be drawn to her. Lunchtime, as it was, seemed to be a good time of the day for these sorts of moments. Watching her with Alice, Bill felt a strong tug of affection in his heart, the sort that bubbled up and spilled over. His friends. His family. Part of it.

More tea was drunk, Bill was pleasantly surprised to find they had sugar at the registration office. According to Alice, all the sugar at the hospital went to treating wounds and preventing infection. Still no milk though. Sadly. He learned pretty fast that tea with sugar and no milk is not a great combination for him, even if Rose swore by it.

Alice and Rose were sitting together, knees touching in a small show of pride and perhaps a show of protest. Bill can remember doing things like that with Charlie once. Sitting at lunch, one foot on his ankle, both of them happy with their secret, at least at the time. Conversation is pleasant, actually. Bill was never much one for talking, small talk or otherwise, but this? This was nice. This he could live with. On his mind, is, as per usual, Charlie. He's thinking about tonight when Charlie will share his bed and they will lie together, arm in arm, just how they used to. That makes him happy. Happier then he's ever been in recent months.

As they finished their lunch (some of Jean's left overs) Bill heard something outside. Analysis: Running, feet. He wonders who they could be and why they were running. His hand hovers near his gun, willing to defend Rose and Alice should he have to. Now he had a family, after all this time, he'd do anything to protect them. Consideration: And he'd admit it as well, he thought, pleasantly.

Penny comes in, panting, face red.  
"Bill. There's something you need to see back at your house." The house? Charlie was at the house. Bill got to his feet, and ran to the car, chasing after Penny, Rose and Alice hot on his heels.


	5. Chapter 5

The house was nothing, is what Bill first thought. He can't even think enough to analyse the situation. The house is gone. Flattened into piles of smoke and debris. Foolishly, he runs into the soot and bruned wood, ignoring the sting as he pushed past the hot wood, to their bedroom. Falling to his knees, he hears Alice cry out. He doesn't know what about. On his knees, he began to sift through the rubble. After ten minutes of burning his hands on the ground he sees white skin shining through, apparently having survived the burning.

Pulling his face clear of the fire, he realised he was wrong: He had not survived. A single, red bullet hole glistened on the front of his white, dirty face. There was no fooling it. He was dead. Carefully, Bill stood, taking Charlie up with him, standing in the wreckage of their home. Looking over, he can see Alice frantically looking for Blake, Rose for her uncle. Bill, strangely, can't even analyse the situation, just Charlie's soft form in his arms. Still. Dainty Somehow, still beautiful.

Suddenly, Rose is screaming.

"He's alive, Alice he's alive!" Alice abandons her search to hunt out Rose and Lawson. He watched, from above, seemingly seeing the situation from the front, observing it. The sky overhead is thick with smoke. The air smells like burning flesh and wood. Barbecue, perhaps. Distantly, he is aware of the tears streaking his face as Penny is down on her hands and knees having spotted someone. He is aware of Charlie's weight in his arms.

Then he sees it, the gun. Charlie must have been killed last. The gun is a sleek, black thing. He reaches for it and it burns his hand, scaling it as he closes it right and brings it to his chin. He pulls the trigger: nothing. He pulls it again: Still nothing. Charlie is lying where he was dropped, resting atop the smoking black would like an angel.

"And every night, I thought about you, protecting Ballarat, and It gave me a reason to keep going i'm so proud of you."

He can't explain it, but somewhere, his brain tosses up this memory. Analysis: Charlie wouldn't want him to kill himself. He drops the gun to the ground and sits back. Alice is looking for Blake. Rose is begging Matthew to live. Somewhere, someone is crying.

…

It falls to Bill to dig graves. Each one is only two feet deep: it feels wrong. They need proper burials, proper funerals. His arms ache with the effort. All the bodies have been wrapped in white cloth, washed by others, ready to be buried. Five graves line the edge of the property, painted stones serving as headstones. First, Jean.

She is carried into her grave by Rose and Ned. Alice reads from the bible, he thinks Jean would have appreciated that. Blake is put in with her, wrapped in white sheet, hidden together. Where they belonged.

Out of all the bodies, Blake was the worst burnt, he'd been in the room where the fire started, Alice tells him that she suspects he wasn't dead. There is really nothing left to put into the grave with him, but Bill thinks that he has Jean, now and forever, and that was all he really wanted. He just wishes he was alive to see it. Alice helps him fill in the hole, even if he asks her not to. Secretly, he's grateful, he doesn't have the energy left to do it alone.

On that first night, with his ruined hands, he dug. His hands blistered, from both the burns, and the work. The pain, and the mindlessness of the work keep him going. Shovel into the dirt, toss it out. His mind doesn't drift to Charlie, battered and bloody. He doesn't think about dirty stains on pristine white hospital sheets. All he thinks about is the next shovel of dirt.

Late in the following morning, when he's dug three graves two foot down, Ned comes for him.

"Bill, you have to stop."  
"Just let me do this."

"Bill, you're hurting yourself." He's too tired and he doesn't care enough to analyse his tone of voice or the situation. But a few shovels later he collapses onto his knees, in a half dug grave, and he cries. Ned climbs into the hole and cries with him. They sit there for an hour, until Ned gets him to his feet, and takes him to the hospital where there has been a temp home base set up.

They has been put in Alice's 'office' as such. Rose spends every waking moment by her uncles side. He doesn't hold it against her. Alice still has to go to work everyday, and heal people. Ned is still healing, leaving only Penny to hold down the fort at the station. Ned assures him that she's doing well. He thinks he should care, but he can't bring himself to.

Eventually, Alice takes the time to tend to his hands, she scolds him for making them worse, and wraps them tightly in gauze. He sleeps sitting on a milk crate, hunched over, blanket wrapped around his aching shoulders.

They buried Frank in his garden, and planted flowers on top of him. Bill thinks that he would have liked that. Ned and Alice fill that hole in, Alice won't let him even pick up the shovel. She thinks he's going to hurt himself. She's right.

Lastly, they have to bury Charlie. Bill is allowed to carry him to his grave, allowed to pull back the sheet, one last time, to see his face. To memorise it, those things the camera could never pick up. The curve of his jaw. The exact shade of brown on his freckles, the placement of the mole under his chin, every scar and wrinkle in his skin. The shade of his hair, each curl, every strand as it should be. This is the end, the end of all things good.

He carries Charlie into the hole, and lay him gently down. On his face, the air is cool. Charlie had always liked winter, so he supposes this is as good a time as any for him to die. He just wishes it was in twenty years time, is all.

He'd spent so long without him already. So much time had passed, and yet being with him was just like it had always been. There's something so final about this last goodbye, he thinks, pressing a tender kiss to Charlie's cheek. Charlie doesn't wake up like they do in fairy tales. He's still very much dead. He lays him down, and covers his face, so dirt won't get into his mouth. He lets Alice help him out. She lets him fill the hole in himself. Analysis: She cares, Bill. She just lost so much. You don't need to make this worse for her.

He's surprised, after all this time, to hear his internal voice again. He'd thought that he'd shut it off for good when he dug Charlie out of the wreckage. He gives a glance to Alice and Ned. He wonders what the Hell he's going to do now.

Objective: Find and kill whoever did this.

…

Finding who did it was the easier of the two options, it seemed. It only took him and Penny a week to find a lead that panned out. Apparently the perp had bragged to his friends about putting his middle finger up to the government. Analysis: He's very stupid.

But honestly, hanging him wasn't enough for Bill. It would always feel incomplete. Maybe that's just how he was destined to be? Incomplete. He wants to know why. He cracks his knuckles, and feels the bones pop. The bruises along his fingers have deepened in colour over the last hour. Ned shuffles paper on the table opposite their man, name was Mike, apparently.

"Why?" Nothing. Bill deals another blow by grabbing his arm, pulling it up and trusting his fist right into his ribcage. He feels a satisfying crunch as one of the ribs in question breaks. Ned seems unperturbed by the violence. Analysis: That's probably a good thing. Consideration: He didn't use to be. Hm. Silence still. Bill glances at Ned. Ned looks back, eyes an abyss of colour and shapes.

Bill picks up the gun from his belt, aims it at the perps knee, and gives him a look.  
"Why?"  
"You're bluffing." Bill pulls the trigger. Bang, the sickening sound of flesh squelching, blood dripping. Mike screams, swears. Bill examines his gun, before tucking it away.

"Why?"

"Fuck you! She said I'd have immunity."

"She?"  
"Fuck!" Mike says, he rushes for Bill like a wounded bull. He miscalculated the amount of weight his ruined knee could hold. He lands on the floor.

"She?" Bill asks, putting his head on top of Mike's shoulder idly, holding him in place, taking his gun and aiming it at his shoulder.

"Get fucked!"Bill shoots him a second time. He screams, blood is everywhere.

"You're going to die." Ned observes, standing. "Now you can tell us what we want to know,take her down with you, and I make sure that Bill here puts you out of your misery, or you don't tell us, and your next few hours become painful." He crouches. "I will get doc Harvey in here to fix up your bullet wounds, and while you're becoming infected I will personally rip out of each of your fingernails, and then break all of your fingers, then your hands, and your wrists, and if you still haven't told us, then I'm going to cut off both your ears, and im going to pull out your teeth. And if you still won't tell us, I'm going to hook you up to jumper cables so that the electricity keeps you alive, and you're begging us to let you die. But we won't. We'll let you die from sepsis. That is, if your heart doesn't give out first. I'm going to ask you one more time," Ned said, sitting back on his haunches and grabbing Mike's head after Bill lifts his foot, and angles his face up to look at him. "She?" Mike looks up at them, with something in his eyes Bill has never seen before. The understanding that he was never going to leave here alive. Bill waits. He's never truly been a patient man, but he'd wait a million years to seek revenge for Charlie Davis.

"Susan Tyeneman." Bill raises the gun. "She told me if I burned down the house, then you would think it was the workers house. She said if you did figure it out, then she'd give me immunity." Ned stands, and moves to Bill's side. Bill pulls his lips back into a tight line, allows Ned to hold onto his arm, and pulls the trigger.

Analysis: He's going to have to pick skull fragments out of his shoes.

...

Bill doesn't strike until Lawson is well again. He's not usually a patient man, but this feels like his time to wait. He doesn't even mind it. Lawson hadn't even really understood what had happened when he woke up. Bill had to explain it to him. He looked like he might cry for a minute, but he follows that up with a request for a cigarette. Bill obliges him, having found out in his shake up of the underground where Lawson got them from. He appreciates it, at least, Bill thinks he does. One can never be sure with Matthew Lawson. He was a mixed basket at best.

His recovery was long and slow. Even now, there was something off about him. He mentioned to Bill once, when they thought he was dead, he was lying there, unable to move, and he could hear Charlie begging to go help him. Bill thought that was such a typically Charlie thing to do, help someone else, even if his own life was in danger. Lawson doesn't remember Charlie's last moments, and somehow that pleases Bill a little bit, because now Charlie had something that was his, and his alone. Something that no one could ever take away from him. It didn't make the pain of losing him for good and for real any easier, and it didn't wash his pale, bloody face off the inside of Bill's eyelids, however.

Eventually, however, he is close to well again, and very pleased Bill didn't just waltz in there and take his revenge. Bill wonders if that is what people thought of him, and then admits to himself that he knew that already. People thought he was a monster. The only person who ever thought of him as something else was Charlie, and he's dead now, so no one can see him as something else.

He remembers, lying in bed once, he asked Charlie if he was a monster. Charlie said no. He said everyone else thinks I am. Charlie had been quiet for a long time, Bill had wondered if he had fallen asleep, then and there. But Charlie, his beautiful Charlie, had replied to him in a hushed voice. He'd said

"I don't think you're a monster Bill. I think you're damaged. Someone or something has damaged you, and this is you, defending yourself from things that you still think can hurt you." It had gone strangely quiet. Even the air had seemed still, waiting for Bill to reply, to disturb the blessed peace of the room. He hadn't for several moments. He'd just lay still, kissing Charlie's hair, over and over and over again. It had been one of many nights spent together, but one of few he could remember.

It's a sombre drive to the town hall, all of them alone in their little private bubbles. Bill is driving. He knows the way off by heart. His picture of Charlie is burning his heart, tucked inside his shirt away from all the pain and the hurt. All the agonies that modern man endured. The picture is well faded now, Charlie has begun to turn yellow and bleed out on the image, and for the millionth time, he wishes he'd splashed out for sepia on that particular photo, not that it mattered much now, he thought, pulling up to a stop. The five of them emerge from the car, and make their way inside, that haunting feeling follows them, their every move.

There are no body guards in the halls, as there have been on other occasions. Bill feels like he should be nervous, but he's not. He's not really feeling much of anything. Even the bone deep sadness has faded into a nothingness. For once, he's not even angry. His only available emotion is total apathy. And that makes him worried. But he pushes on, because there is no choice left.

She's waiting for them, in her little room, hands flat on the table, sitting back. Edward is surprisingly absent.  
"I wasn't expecting all of you." She said, idly. She's seems like she was expecting them, and she probably was. You don't kill four people and not expect retribution. "For what it's worth, Bill, I didn't mean for anyone to die."

"Just to burn down my home."  
"I needed to send you a message." She replied, "You were out of control." He frowned deeply, questioning her with his eyes. She starred back, eyes matching his in depths. "No one was meant to die." She said, after several long moments. Bill keeps looking at her. "When I'm dead, who will look after my son?" Bill keeps starring at her, and he doesn't see the monster he was expecting. Just a tired, sad and slightly scared woman who even here, faced with almost certain death, just wanted to know if her son was going to be okay. "Will you kill him as well?"

"No." Matthew. Analysis: He think he's going to do the right thing and spare him. "I'll find somewhere for him."

Looking at her, the woman who ordered the death of four of his closest friends, no matter how accidental, the woman that killed the only man who ever loved him, he doesn't feel angry. He doesn't feel anything. She's not a monster. She's just a woman. But these people wanted a vengeful monster. They wanted a man who razed cities and beat and kill and tore. And who was he, to deny them a show?

He raised the gun, and met her eye. She looked back. There's not as much blood as he was expecting.

…


	6. Chapter 6

He misses his internal voice, sometimes. The one that analysed and offered advice. Without it, he feels as if he's flying blind. Things occur and they just wash over him, pleasant, unbothering. He fears he has become passive. He wonders if this is how most people think. Life in Ballarat goes on. Matthew is elected the new community leader. There is no punishment from the government, but a congratulations. Alice goes back to the hospital. Rose goes back to the registry office. He and Ned go back to the station where Penny is waiting for them.

Edward follows Matthew around like he had his mother, as still and silent as he ever was. Bill wonders if he even notices the change. He supposes he will never know. Not three days after coming into power, Matthew becomes like Susan Tyneman, and tells Bill to write the crime off as cold. He knows. He realises. He will live with the black marks on his soul. He has too. All of them do.

Weekly, Bill returns to Mycroft Avenue, with flowers, sometimes. Sometimes not. He goes to see Charlie. He sits by the grave at the back of the burnt out house, some of it has blown or washed away. It's still a stain on the landscape. Frank's garden is a mess of leaves, vines and untended plants. In other years, he might have been able to think about what plants were what and how he could fix them, but that little internal voice had seemingly died with Charlie.

Arriving at the stone, he tosses the dead flowers from last week aside, and replaced them with new ones. He thinks Charlie would have liked them, they're daisies. He's not sure why, but he thinks Charlie would have liked daises. Reaching into his breast pocket, he produced his only remaining photograph of him, the last trace of him. Charlie is beaming like he always, though there is a crease over his hand now, from being pushed out of sight too roughly. Serves him right, really. Bill wouldn't know, would he, how to handle something gentle, how to keep something wonderful and not ruin it. He's careful now, however. He smoothes the picture with his fingers and takes a moment to study his face. Every line, every crease. He curl of his hair, the curve of his jaw, all of it. And he feels blessed to have known him.

That afternoon, as he left the cemetery, he wondered, to himself, what was even left here for him. People he no longer connected with? A home he didn't love? A family he missed? Interestingly, when he returns to the car, he finds that he can't drive to the hospital, to see Alice. The police station may as well have been on the moon, and Lawson's office seemed like a life time ago. He throws one last glance at Charlie's grave, and smiles.

When he passes the sign for the Ballarat city limits, now graffitied and dirty, Bill leaves a piece of himself behind there, buried in the earth at Mycroft Avenue, but he has now, when he's gone, he'll never hurt anyone. Ever again.

…

"That's the whole story, then?" the man who used to call himself Bill Hobart nodded, and tugged the child in his lap incrementally closer. She sighs softly, and turned her face up to look at him. "Really?"

"Mhm."

"Wow." Pontaine wraps her arms around her knees, and turns sideways to put her head on his chest. "Will show me the picture again?" The man who used to call himself Bill Hobart reached into his breast pocket and produced his yellowed, faded, creased and well loved picture of Charlie Davis. She examines it, and then leans back on his chest. "He's lovely."  
"I know." Pontaine, as she was, had been given to him by a woman who wanted him to bury her with the corpses, telling him she'd make it worth his while. The man who used to call himself Bill Hobart, being a business man, had taken the money, but not buried the child, unable to throw away life in these times.

Charlie told him once, if he ever had a daughter, he would name her Pontaine.

"Like foutain, in French. Fountaine. But with a P."  
"Why?" He'd asked.

"Well, I misheard it the first time." He'd said, with a small smile. "And I liked what I misheard better." So when Bill found himself holding onto a babe, he did what he did best, and named her in Charlie's honour.

Pontaine was looking at him, with those big blue eyes. It would have been easy enough for her to actually be Charlie's daughter with that long black hair, curly, and pulled neatly into plaits, and those big blue eyes, wide and full of thought. He can't be certain but she might have his nose as well. His tiny, battered, internal voice reminds him that he's probably just projecting, she possibly doesn't look like Charlie at all. But he silences it quickly, he prefers it this way.

"It's cold." Pontaine complained, as they lay down on their simple bedroll for the night. The graves digger shack was old and the cold seeped in through the boarded walls and up through the dirt floor. But it kept the rain and the sun out so Bill wasn't going to complain.

"Cold is good. Means more bodies."

"More bodies means more holes." Bill nodded, and pulled yet another blanket over them.

"More holes means more money." Pontaine smiled at him,and took his hands into her own, examining the large burns carefully, as was her nightly ritual. Tanned from working many long, hot summers, Bill watches as she traces one small finger over each of his palms, her pale skin contrasting prettily with his impressively tanned one. In those last months, he'd been a lot more tan then Charlie, he's pretty sure Charlie wouldn't even recognise him now. New injuries on old injuries, new muscle, new tan. Pontaine has finished her nightly examination of the blisters on his hands,and lay down, resting her face against his chest. Bill watches her until she sleeps. He reaches into his breast pocket, and falls asleep with his fingers ghosting over Charlie's face.

…

He always dreams of Charlie Davis.


End file.
